


The good guys always win

by Nathea_Rayne



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nathea_Rayne/pseuds/Nathea_Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You don't need to think about it anymore, by now your body knows what to do without any input from your mind. Your left arm rises over your shoulder, you grip the sword handle and draw the blade from its sheath. Hard metal melts into your grip through the tough leather gloves. It fits perfectly.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>This weapon was made for you, you were made for it.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Your only purpose is to kill with it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The good guys always win

You can't hear anything besides your own breath.  
  
Slow. Focused. Louder than it should be.  
  
An echo, reverberating off walls you can't see. It catches in your throat when you try to be quieter. It's not working. You can't breathe. Pinpricks in your lungs.  
  
"Breathe!" hisses an agitated voice above you.  
  
You obey, open your mouth and let the oxygen flood your body. Your head clears.  
  
You have to focus. Have to keep going. Have to breathe.  
  
A single drop falls down on the floor in front of you, swirling up the thin sheet of water, making circles that almost reach your bulky, brown leather boots. You take a moment to wonder when you learnt to move in them so quickly. You abandon the thought.  
  
Focus.  
  
Fog is trying to lead you astray. You can't see the walls, but you know you haven't left the building, because you can't feel a breeze. You'd smell the freedom if it were surrounding you. There is no freedom. But when you take a step towards the small island that's between you and the door, there is something else. A single tree is sticking up through the fog.  
  
Old. Dead. Rotten.  
  
You can feel that you're not alone. You know he's here before you can see him.  
  
A black blur, a vague silhouette, a mere shadow.  
  
A shadow, you tell yourself. Nothing more.  
  
You don't need to think about it anymore, by now your body knows what to do without any input from your mind. Your left arm rises over your shoulder, you grip the sword handle and draw the blade from its sheath. Hard metal melts into your grip through the tough leather gloves. It fits perfectly.  
  
This weapon was made for you, you were made for it.  
  
Your only purpose is to kill with it.  
  
It starts, just like countless times before. You're practised in this, repeating the techniques you've been honing for so long, using your body to attack without ever questioning your cause. You're not afraid, no one ever gave you a reason to be. The good guys always win.  
  
A vertical blow, a semi-circle to your right, a backhanded strike. Down! Yanking your shield up, metal on metal, sparks fly. A step back, one to your left, you draw the sword up between yourself and the shadow and parry what would have been a fatal blow. Forward, back, right, left, sideways, from above, a stab, perfectly straight, as if pulled by a string.  
  
He makes a backflip from where he's standing and lands on his feet like a cat, without disturbing the water. He's standing straight, sword and shield held high, watching you. That's all you can see: no face, only two glowing red eyes staring at you. You can't hear his breath, only yours.  
  
Fast. Erratic. Too loud.  
  
"What are you?" you whisper, even if you have known the answer for a long time. He doesn't answer, only looks at you.  
  
When you brandish your sword, he does the same; when you lunge forward, he does the same.  
  
Blades collide, again and again. The shadow mirrors each of your movements without ever losing sight of you. Your breathing speeds up again, getting louder, you hear the blood rushing in your ears, so loud you can't hear the melody of the swords anymore that has carried you so far.  
  
You're getting tired, your arms are getting heavier. You try to keep your shield up, but you can feel every blow in your bones now, each strike makes you gasp louder and louder.  
  
Your time is running out. It has to end now, right now, before you're too tired for the final blow. You gather up all your will power, concentrate it in an almost animalistic cry, and lunge one last time to destroy the shadow.  
  
The floor tilts, you lose your balance and you're falling, hitting the cold, hard tiles underneath the thin sheet of water.  
  
There's a burning line dividing your face.  
  
Your cramped fingers move of their own acord, letting go of the sword and touching your cheek, where the shadow blade sliced your skin. You stare at your hand and see it for the first time.  
  
Rust-red spots on brown leather.  
  
Blood.  
  
"No," you whisper. "It... it can't..."  
  
Through your fingers you see the shadow advance. He kicks your shield out of your line of vision; you hear it slide over the floor until it stops beyond reach.  
  
"Link!" shrieks the voice above you. "Link!" Do something!"  
  
The shadow bends down and picks your sword up, takes another step that makes him tower over you.  
  
You hear the words coming from your mouth, but it feels like it's someone else saying them. "It can't be. I'm the hero. The Hero of Time. I need to... I need to save – "  
  
A kick in your chest draws the air from your lungs and makes you fall back into the water. The shadow doesn't waste any time. It looks practised, almost automatical, when he raises your sword and buries the blade deep in your chest in one quick movement.  
  
The holy steel cuts effortlessly through cloth and chainmail; you feel it glide through skin and flesh, grazing your sternum, dissecting muscles. You don't feel pain, only astonishment.  
  
This can't be happening. You are the hero. You are the saviour.  
  
Even while your consciousness is fading, you see the shadow brighten. Pale skin appears, and long, pointed ears. His facial features are familiar in a way that sends more shivers down your spine than the wound in your chest. His black armour shimmers dark-blue in the light.  
  
No. He's just a shadow. You are the chosen one.  
  
The last thing you hear before you slip into the darkness is a voice that could be yours:  
  
"You’re just a shadow. You should have known you couldn't possibly kill me. The good guys always win."

 


End file.
